Burning the Heart
by EEwrites
Summary: Between their time breaking up the Black Lotus smuggling ring and facing Moriarty at the pool, Sherlock and John adjust to their new life at 221B. This is the story of how Sherlock discovers the heart Moriarty will threaten to burn.
1. Chapter 1

In the last twelve hours later, John had been kidnapped, held ransom and gone without sleep for two days. He did, however, have a ten thousand pound cheque in his pocket and while it was of course made out to Sherlock, he couldn't help but feel proud. They had just returned from revealing the jade hair pin's location to Sebastian and a very stricken secretary.

"Should go to the bank, deposit this," John muttered to himself while waiting for Sherlock to finish showering.

He was so tired. Five minutes before he could have a wash, make some toast, and go to bed. John's head dropped to the table in front of him, pillowed roughly in his hands.

"John." Sherlock's voice broke his stupour.

John mumbled a response. Long fingers wrapped around his wrist and _pulled_ , dislodging his head and jolting him upright.

"Jesus, Sherlock! Normal people need sleep you know."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Normal people need many things apparently. It's boring."

"It's not a lot actually. Sleep and food. You can't say that's asking for much."

Sherlock was wearing his suit again. He'd finished showering and changed his shirt. Or maybe the full suit - John didn't even want to know how many of those he had in his closet. The fact he was dressed instead of lounging in his dressing gown did not bode well for John's plans to sleep the rest of the day.

"I suppose normal people need to 'get off with' dates as well," Sherlock said, quoting John's embarrassing outburst from earlier that evening (yesterday evening? It felt so long ago) at the Chinese circus.

John coloured. "Well yea, that too."

"So you want to ask an international smuggling ring to kindly pause its illicit activities because you need a nice dinner, a nap, and to engage in release of sexual tension." He ticked off the demands on his fingers as he spoke.

"You know what? Forget I said anything."

John rose to his feet. He grabbed his jacket and punched his arms through the sleeves, trying to ignore Sherlock's impassive gaze.

After picking up his gloves and phone, John couldn't avoid looking at his flatmate. "So where are we going?"

Sherlock smiled, one of his smug ones. "We're paying another visit to the friend who got you that ASBO. He's seen one of General Shan's operatives lurking around the graffiti den we investigated."

John looked longingly at the toaster on their way out the door.

General Shan's operative appeared to be unaware of the adventures his leader had engaged in the previous night. He was loitering in the skatepark tunnels next to Waterloo with a can of very familiar yellow spraypaint, holding it as a prop as he waited for orders from someone in the organization. Sherlock and John's covert observation was interrupted when a gun discharged nearby and all hell broke loose.

Youths fearing ASBOs fled alongside hardened criminals, and no one stayed to find the source of disruption. No one except Sherlock. After a twenty-minute chase through London, the perpetrator jumped off a bridge into the Thames, and John physically restrained Sherlock from following. The detective brooded the entire taxi ride back to Baker Street.

"That man was not a member of the Black Lotus Tong," he mused when they arrived in the living room.

"He could have been part of a drug deal gone wrong for all we know," John said. "Ah well, bad timing I suppose."

"No, I said he was not part of the gang, not that he was unrelated."

"How do you know that?"

"Easy. He was aiming at our Black Lotus operative."

"There is _no way_ you could know that. We didn't even see him until after he fired the shot."

"No, but we did see the operative. The bullet grazed his arm, not much but enough to send a message. The would-be murderer was standing only metres behind us. He wouldn't have missed from that distance. So the graze was deliberate. But what kind of message? Clear out of London? You're finished here?"

John sighed in exhaustion. "Look, if the smugglers start operating again, we'll hear about it. Then we can find that guy again."

Sherlock jumped to his feet and cursed. "Damn! He survived that jump, and now we've lost his trail. We should have followed him."

"Sherlock, he may have survived but that doesn't mean you would! You could have hit a rock or something in the river."

"Don't be absurd. There aren't any rocks in this part of the Thames, John. It's a main thoroughfare for ship traffic."

"Well at the very least you'd get hypothermia! Now I'm going to take my long overdue shower."

Sherlock wrinkled his nose, which John supposed was his way of agreeing that yes, John did need to take a shower. Charming. It certainly wasn't John's fault he'd been traipsing around London for two days straight.

He took a shower, made toast (Sherlock even ate a piece), and padded to the sofa in his pajamas. One quick glance at the news (it was habit, he had to do it every morning) then he would have a nice, long sleep.

Except Sherlock had settled in his chair and sat contemplating John with his fingers steepled under his chin. His gaze was as inscrutable as always, and it was unnerving to have it directed at John.

"Give it a rest Sherlock and wait until we hear something new about the gang."

Sherlock didn't acknowledge him.

"I'm sure you could ask that Dimmock bloke to keep you updated. Oh Christ we didn't even tell him about the shooting. I suppose he doesn't need to know..."

"John." Sherlock said, leaning back in his chair with his hands resting on its arms. "I would prefer that you don't go on mindless dates with insipid women during our cases."

John paused, startled at the change in topic. When he caught up again, it was only to say "Sarah's not- no, nevermind, we're not talking about this."

"It's detrimental to the work, John. She distracts you from the work, and she gets in my way."

"I seem to recall she pointed out Soo Lin's translation from the gallery."

"That was a stroke of luck on her part. Overall, her presence was deleterious to the case."

John sighed. He had been living at 221B for just over a week, and he thought he might be happy here, but it was time to lay down some rules of his own.

"Look," John said, in a firm but gentle voice he used when advising particularly difficult patients. "We can't predict when a case is going to take us running around London all night. I need to schedule a day, time, and place to meet with women I find attractive. It won't happen all the time, but there may be some overlap. OK?"

Sherlock didn't respond but his eyes glittered. John didn't know what to make of that so he pressed on.

"I already told you that most people have certain needs, and I need to release that tension-"

"Which is precisely why I've decided that if you need any of that" - Sherlock waved his arm to indicate the general needs of normal people - "you should come to me."

John gaped at him. "I think lack of sleep is affecting your 'Transport' too now. Think about what you just said."

Sherlock fixed him with an impatient look. "I don't like repeating myself, so do keep up. The next time you feel this so-called need, I'll help and save you the time you spend on awkward and frankly boring dates."

John nearly laughed. In his sleep-deprived state the situation seemed extraordinarily funny.

"I don't think you know what you're suggesting."

Sherlock jumped to his feet in irritation. "Is it any wonder you don't pick up on clues, as you so obviously need everything spelled out for you. You have needs, I have hands, and a mouth for that matter, so let me help."

John's mind had gone blank the moment the moment Sherlock uttered 'mouth'. He felt tense all over, and he noticed his hands were clenched into fists.

"Sherlock, I'm perfectly capable of finding dates and even if I weren't, I don't need a pity wank. That is not normal flatmate behaviour."

"John, think about the work."

"Not good, Sherlock, not good. I'm going to sleep and will forget we ever had this conversation."

John stomped up the stairs with a little more force than was necessary. He certainly couldn't claim his life was boring any more. Maybe it was time to update his blog.

A/N: Do you think the story has legs? Let me know!


	2. Chapter 2: Capitulation

_Today, something finally happened to me. I should really say 'someone'…but before you take that the wrong way, it isn't like that. Well, it isn't for now anyway._

John sighed and hit delete.

 _My new flatmate Sherlock has very unique features, both in personality and appearance._

Delete.

John leaned back, and the image of Sherlock's ridiculous cheekbones filled his mind. It morphed into his pale skin stretched across them, pulled taut by his open jaw. He felt his lower abdomen tighten.

John was not completely new to the pleasures a male body could bring. After all, his moniker 'Three Continents Watson' was earned through extensive experience that included a few drunken encounters with the lads. They had always laughed it off the next day and John had never questioned his sexuality. Those nights were pleasurable but they were unexpected and unusual and didn't change the fact that John Watson _loved women._

Then again, everything about Sherlock was unexpected and unusual. Being around him cleared the grey fog of ordinary life from his post-Afghanistan routine. It made life interesting again…worth living.

John sank deeper into the couch cushions. He wondered what Sherlock would have done if John said yes. If Sherlock would have sat next to John on the couch and reached over to undo his zipper, palm him through the open jeans with his violinist fingers. John moaned quietly.

Sherlock had gone out to Barts. He hadn't said how long he would be, only murmuring something absurd like 'however long it takes to get a head'. That was only thirty minutes ago, which meant that John had time.

He moved his laptop and undid the zip on his trousers, images of his flatmate filling his head. He pushed down on a burgeoning erection through the fabric of his pants and groaned again. He bet Sherlock wore black silk pants, something just as poncy and sexy as his tightly fitted button down shirts and dress slacks. John had never really gone for posh before, but Sherlock…god. He began to rub himself in earnest, still denying himself flesh on flesh contact as he thought guiltily of his flatmate's offer. This wouldn't take long.

The door swung open and John glimpsed a whirlwind of swirling coat, tussled hair and bright eyes before he instinctively pulled his laptop over the open zipper in his lap. He moved his fingers mindlessly over the keys and looked up as though in mild surprise.

"Back so soon?"

Sherlock smiled brilliantly at him and announced, "She's dead!"

"She – who?"

"General Shan, John! Keep up!"

"Why would she be – "

"Yes, exactly. Why would she be dead? Only happened an hour ago. Let's go!"

"Ok, just give me a moment. I'll, uh, just use the loo first."

"John, _hurry._ "

Sherlock glanced at him and thankfully paced into the kitchen, presumably to check on what was supposedly a very important experiment on tooth plaque incubating in the toaster oven. John breathed a sigh of relief and hurriedly made for the bathroom where he could unobtrusively zip up his fly and splash cold water on his face.

"John," Sherlock's voice called after him. "Next time, you might want to turn the laptop on when you're pretending to type!"

Five minutes later, John could still feel the blush on his face as they travelled by taxi to Peckham. He had taken no more than two minutes before leaving the bathroom – not wanting to be accused of letting a wank get in the way of a case _again_ – and Sherlock's miraculous power to hail a cab had them en route as soon as they stepped out the door. Probably had something to do with his bloody coat, John thought.

-o-o-o-o

Detective Inspector Lestrade met them at a crowded junction in central Peckham. Bicyclists and motorists passed, shouting and honking at drivers not moving quickly enough when the lights turned green. A mild smell of fish and mussels – still mostly preserved in the cool spring weather – wafted from street-side vendors to the front door when the inspector stood. John spied yellow and black striped police tape blocking the entrance.

Sherlock sniffed the air and turned on his heel, surveying the site.

"People don't seem too concerned, do they?" John said after greeting Lestrade.

Lestrade shrugged grimly. "We've tried to be discrete. Busy place like this. Everyone comes and goes too much to give us any real information."

"Show me the room she was in," Sherlock interrupted.

They walked through a dingy corridor and up two flights of stairs to enter a small, well-maintained but impersonal flat. Sherlock paced through the galley kitchen and single bedroom before returning to stand in front of a large wooden desk and frowning.

"Why did you move the body before calling me?" he griped.

"Regulations. Anyway, she was sitting there," Lestrade said, gesturing toward the chair, "with her head down on the desk."

John could make out a bloodstain on the wood. Sherlock sniffed the air again and smiled. He glanced toward the window.

"What idiot did you have on forensics? Wait, don't tell me – Anderson?"

Lestrade scratched his head guiltily. "Yea, it was Anderson. Said there wasn't any DNA inside the room apart from her own. Lived alone, apparently."

"What an idiot. I suppose he closed the window as well did he?"

Sherlock strode toward the window looking out onto the busy junction and pushed up on the bottom pane. To John's surprise the top pane lurched down as the bottom pane rose. An old sash window. He shivered as cold air rushed in.

"I reckon he might have closed it, yea," Lestrade conceded. "Probably worried about dust and whatnot contaminating the scene."

"Why bother when he destroys the evidence already…" Sherlock muttered.

He looked at John with bright, intense eyes and smiled. John recognized the look. He had worked something out, something that would help them solve the case. John should feel elated, and he did, but it had more to do with Sherlock's attention than the prospect of catching a criminal.

Sherlock swept around the room with his magnifying glass, leaning over the desk and picking up a strand of hair from the floor behind the chair. He moved with a grace and fluidity that dancers would envy, and John found himself growing aroused at the thought

"Well, we have everything we need from here. To the morgue!"

With Sherlock's announcement, they turned to leave.

General Shan's body was untouched save for a single bullet wound in her forehead. It had been cleaned of the blood that inevitably ran in crimson streaks down her face, leaving only the grey pallor of dead flesh in its wake. John shuddered, remembering less sanitized bodies left behind after summary executions in a war zone.

"Shot execution style," Lestrade summarized. "Probably by a sniper. Never knew it was coming."

"Definitely a sniper," John concurred. "I've seen it before."

Sherlock glanced at him over his shoulder, and there was only interest – not pity – in his expression. He spoke to John, leaving Lestrade outside the circle of brilliance he emitted when voicing his deductions. "Yes, but you've missed everything of interest."

"Which is?" John asked.

"There was no sign of a struggle," Sherlock began, gesturing toward the rest of her unmarked body, "So General Shan either didn't know she was about to be killed or accepted that she deserved it. The bullet entered from the front, which suggests she would have had a clear view of the sniper, so we can rule out the aspect of surprise."

"But the shot would have come through the window!" Lestrade protested. "She wouldn't have seen the sniper."

"You said the window was open," John pointed out.

"The window _was_ open, but why did Anderson close it? Not because of the dust. He's not intelligent enough for that. Because he was cold. It's far too cold to have a window open this time of year. And the smell of fish on the street. It wasn't present in the flat, suggesting the window hadn't been open for very long before she was found and Anderson closed it."

Lestrade scratched his head. "Which means?"

"Which _means_ ," said Sherlock, with a flourish of his hand, "General Shan opened the window just before she was shot. She opened it after she had not only failed to obtain the jade hairpin they lost but also after involving us and therefore the police. Someone ordered her to open the window and out of honour, she complied. She knew she was going to die."

"And why does that matter?" John asked.

"It means General Shan – the person Soo Lin claimed was head of the Black Lotus network – answered to someone else. Someone higher up than her."

He straightened as John shook his head. "That's amazing. Brilliant. I wonder why she posed as the network head…"

"We don't know who the other person was," Sherlock cautioned, "But it might be worth our time to find out. Lestrade, why don't you find out anything else you can about Black Lotus activities in London. I expect we'll get something faster than you though. Come on, John."

John nodded to Lestrade and followed the detective. He watched Sherlock's head of curls ascend the stairs in front of him and marvelled at how such a magnificent mind was contained in such attractive 'transport.' For not the first time that day, John thought about running his hands through the curls, wondered if Sherlock would lean his head into the hand as he did.

They emerged into the sunshine and Sherlock took off down a side street. John followed, taking long strides to keep up with Sherlock's longer legs. He slowed in relief as he saw Sherlock speaking to a homeless man in a sleeping bag on the corner. Sherlock took out his wallet and rifled through it.

John ran headfirst into another pedestrian.

"Oh, sorry," he apologized. "My fa-fault."

The woman looked up and smiled at him, and John instantly noted her bright red lipstick and attractive figure. She was dressed in a manner she wanted people to find attractive, John noted, Sherlock's deductive reasoning still fresh in his mind. That meant she was probably heading to a date…

"No, please, it's my fault!" She laughed a little and smiled at John, looking him up and down. "Do you want to buy me a coffee to make up for it?"

John opened his mouth to respond as Sherlock whirled around, transaction obviously complete, and raised his arm to signal to John. "John, let's go. We're done here."

"One minute," John muttered apologetically to the woman with a smile and half-ran to meet Sherlock. "What next?"

"We wait for information," said Sherlock, with an edge of impatience in his voice. "My network knows where to find me."

"Good," said John, stopping on the pavement. "Ah, in that case, I'm going to stay here for a bit. I'll catch you back at the flat."

Sherlock halted and looked at John then the woman who stood fiddling with her purse and pretending not to overhear them.

"We don't have any casework," John pointed out.

"But we can do research, John. Do you really already need –"

"No," John said warningly, "But there's no urgent work, and I'll be back this evening. Bye, Sherlock."

He walked away before Sherlock had a chance to frown and offered his arm to the charming woman. She graciously took it. He's right, John thought to himself, I wouldn't usually go on a date right now, certainly not with someone I've just met.

The problem was that now he had accepted Sherlock's unbearable attraction, his libido seemed to think every saunter of the detective's hips was another covert invitation. John needed a distraction.

-o-o-o-o-

The woman's name was Emily, and she was a ballerina. They hit it off over coffee and moved on to cocktails, after which they had dinner at a Thai place in Soho. John liked her, and more importantly, she seemed to like him too.

At the end of dinner, John hesitated only for a few seconds before inviting her to see his flat. After all, they were only minutes away and if the look she was giving him was any indication, she wanted to see his bed.

John opened the door to their rooms, fervently hoping Sherlock had gone out to Barts again. He blinked once in disappointment when he saw the still suited figure in the kitchen. Sherlock didn't bother to look up, but as Emily now gazed over at him in interest John cleared his throat.

"Uh, Sherlock, this is Emily. Emily, he's my flatmate. Now let me just show you..."

"What are you doing?" Emily asked in a half-horrified voice, pausing in the act of putting away her wallet to stare at Sherlock.

John grimaced and followed her gaze. Sherlock held what was undeniably a human molar in one gloved hand and a scalpel in the other.

"Studying the build-up of plaque on the teeth of differently aged dead humans."

John bit back a sigh. Emily, however, squirmed in discomfort.

"Do you work in a morgue or something?" She turned to John. "That's a little creepy."

"Yes, well-" John tried to smooth over the incident, but Sherlock now leaned back on his stool and observed them instead.

"Experiments like this hardly mean I work at a morgue. Slicing up whole cadavers is much less interesting. There's certainly nothing 'creepy' about corpses either. No, but if I were to think about unorthodox professions, I can't think of a better one than yours."

"Wait," John interrupted, "She's a ballerina. There's no need to show off with your deductions."

Sherlock snorted. "Well, she's certainly a dancer of one kind, I'll give you that."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Emily asked, stepping forward. John hurriedly grabbed her arm.

"It means," said Sherlock, standing, "That you do indeed dance for a living, but judging by your curvy body type, the flat arches on your feet that no ballet dancer would have and the bulges in your wallet suggestive of many low-denomination bills, you are an exotic dancer rather than a classical one. Maybe a distinction you don't like to point out to potential boyfriends."

Emily's mouth snapped shut and her eyes scrunched in fury. John gently tugged her backward and put a gently hand on her shoulder.

"Sherlock," he said, injecting anger into his voice for her sake, "Have you ever thought it's none of your business what she does for a living?"

Sherlock's brow furrowed. "But she lied to you, John!"

"Yea, well maybe she wanted to wait until we knew each other a little better. It's just a different type of dancing, hardly a huge cover-up for illicit activities."

John tensed when Sherlock rolled his eyes. "You're right of course, John. The dancing is hardly illegal. The fact that she's slept with people for money though…oh, unless that's what you intended to do tonight?"

John instinctively stepped back, and Emily gasped, "That's not true!"

Sherlock only arched an eyebrow. "Was I wrong about anything else?"

Emily's cry of disbelief ended with a sob and she wrenched her arm out of John's grip. "Let me go, I'm leaving! And I thought you were such a nice person, John Watson!"

"Wait…"

The door slammed shut behind her, and John glared at Sherlock.

He looked at John with faux innocence. "Did you not realize that part?"

"Piss off, Sherlock!"

John stormed to the bathroom. When he emerged ten minutes later, John's rage had ebbed. Sherlock had ruined his date – again – but he also prevented him from sleeping with a sex worker. John pitied the woman but as a doctor he knew the health dangers of such an occupation. And the last thing he needed was any misunderstanding over the night.

He was no longer angry at Sherlock. Sherlock didn't need to know that though.

John collapsed into his chair and picked up the newspaper, determinedly ignoring the uncomfortable sound of Sherlock's blade scraping teeth in the kitchen.

When the experiment thankfully ceased, Sherlock emerged and headed to the bathroom without saying a word. In ten minutes Sherlock emerged wearing his dark blue dressing gown.

"John…" Sherlock broke the silence in an uncertain voice. "Should I be sorry about earlier?"

John tried to resist a small smile at Sherlock's question. "No, not really. Although you could have told me privately instead of embarrassing her."

Sherlock nodded, looking relieved, then shifted into business as usual. "They caught the assassin."

"The one from Waterloo tunnels?" John immediately perked up. "Why aren't we at the police station then?"

"Lestrade said the interrogation needs to wait until morning," Sherlock mumbled. "We'll get leads from him on this higher power in the Black Lotus. We'll be busy for a while now."

"Okay…" said John.

"Too busy for you to go on dates."

"Oh…"

"If you needed a date tonight, you know what I suggested."

"Yes," said John, swallowing tightly. He jumped as Sherlock walked close to his chair. "I mean, yes I know what you said! Not yes…"

But his groin had already twitched at the suggestion, and it somehow felt fair that he get from Sherlock what the detective's lack of tact had deprived him of… except, he had only wanted that date to distract himself from lurid thoughts of Sherlock in the first place.

John jumped as long fingers smoothed over his shoulders and skimmed his chest. He hadn't even heard Sherlock approach from behind his chair.

"What are you doing?" He rasped.

"That is an idiotic question," Sherlock rumbled.

"You- you can't just do this."

"Why not?"

Sherlock's hands, which had roamed back up to his shoulders, brushing nipples along the way, dived south with purpose. John's mind failed to form its arguments, until Sherlock's fingers nudged his belly to grasp the top button on his jeans.

"Well, for one thing, there's something called foreplay, you know." John managed to say the words without sounding too breathless.

Sherlock was unusually quiet, but the hands disappeared - John briefly shut his eyes in regret - before they landed once again on his shoulders. John jumped when Sherlock began to knead the tense muscles of his neck.

"That's nice," he murmured. He shouldn't have been surprised that Sherlock understood muscles. The man spent enough time with bodies, albeit dead ones.

Sherlock's hands warmed with friction and the heat radiated into John and released tension he did not realize he carried. Then the fingers worked outwards, where they brushed through the fabric of his shirt against the region of scar tissue twisting around a now-healed bullet wound he had not thought about in weeks.

Sherlock paused, reading John's stiffened posture.

"Does it hurt?" he asked.

"No, feels great actually," John reassured. "I had massage as part of my physiotherapy, haven't considered it since."

Sherlock traced the shoulder gently through his shirt, lightly prodding the cratered entry wound and the surrounding spiderweb of scars. John sank into the skilful ministrations.

Then faceless hands slid up to his collar and tugged lightly on the shirt, obviously trying to see the scar from Sherlock's vantage point near his neck. "May I?"

John swallowed once, then nodded. Sherlock swiftly undid the top two buttons of his shirt and cool fingertips touched heated skin as they brushed beneath the fabric. John shivered at the pleasurable sensation.

Encouraged, Sherlock unbuttoned a few more inches, shifting the shirt from John's shoulder where it caught on his arm, exposing the silvery scars to Sherlock's sight. John heard Sherlock's small intake of breath a moment before careful fingers traced the damage.

A hot tongue followed their path. It felt better than it had any right to, and John nearly winced at the prickles of pleasure skating across what was previously only an area of pain. He huffed a small laugh; of course Sherlock would be fascinated by what others found repulsive.

His muted chuckle eased the tense atmosphere, and as John relaxed he felt the body behind him move closer. Sherlock was draped over the chair, his long arms caressing John's stomach and chest as his tongue languished at the shoulder. He pressed a soft kiss to the side of John's neck and John moaned at the sensation.

This time John did not resist when the hands dropped lower to undo the jeans. He helpfully raised his hips to allow the trousers and his pants to be pushed to mid-thigh, then watched in incredulity as those familiar long fingers curled around his half erect penis. Sherlock's wrapped his hand around the entire girth of him, and John was lost in the sensation.

John had imagined this several times over the past week, but he did not consider the finer details. Small, rough callouses dragged across sensitive skin, undoubtedly the results of experiments gone wrong – splashes of acid, a slip of the hand near the Bunsen burner. Or perhaps from indolent plucking on a violin. John's head tipped back.

Sherlock moved his roughened fingertips across the top of John's sensitive head. He stroked his length twice then teasingly trailed his fingers along it. John panted softly, sensation mingling with the knowledge that this was _Sherlock's_ hand. Sherlock's fingers that delicately rendered oceans of information from analysing a single droplet. It was too much for John to bear.

The pressure built to an exquisite point of pleasure and pain and John's neck strained and he angled his head towards Sherlock's frame draped over the chair. He gasped. Sherlock's expensive cologne and musk and sweat filled his nose, then Sherlock twisted the hand on his cock and gently pressed fingers to the soft skin beneath his testicles, and John's back arched and he came with a moan.

He lingered at the point of pleasure for several deep, shuddering breaths then involuntarily slumped into the armchair. Sherlock's hand wrapped around his chest to stop him sliding boneless to the ground.

"That was - well, thanks," John panted, embarrassment creep into his post-coital bliss. Sherlock murmured in agreement then backed away. John was glad Sherlock was behind him, because he didn't know how he would face his flatmate now.

-o-o-o-o-

A/N: Comments and constructive criticism are welcomed! Happy weekend xxx


End file.
